Watch the Sky
by Surrender
Summary: For three years, the police of Axis City have had a hesitant truce with the Alliance of Superheroes. When a war is sparked between the two, Detective England Kirkland must fight to save the justice system, and the people, he has sworn to protect. Superhero AU (USUK)
1. Axis City Savior

******Title: **Watch the Sky**  
****Genre: **Superheroes (with some drama and a heaping helping of angsty romance on the side)**  
****Pairings: **(in this chapter) some one-sided USUK; France/Canada (Franada? what are the kids calling it these days?)**  
****Rating: **PG-13 for some language**  
****Warning: **AU, slash**  
****Word Count: **(in this chapter)5,895**  
****Summary: **For three years, the police of Axis City have had a hesitant, unspoken truce with the resident Alliance of Superheroes. However, when an up-and-coming politician sparks a war between the two, Detective England Kirkland must allow himself to be the villain in order to save the Justice system, and the people, he has sworn to protect.

**Disclaimer:** All yours, Hima-pops, and I promise you it puts not a dime in my lonely, lonely wallet.

**Important Author's Note and Stuff: **this story has been very, VERY heavily edited as of 15 November, 2012. I've recently rediscovered it, you see, and still apparently have such a soft spot for the thing that I decided to spruce it up and send it back out into the world for all you darlings. Paul Valery (a man, I think, most well-known for this particular quote) once said that a poem is never finished, only abandoned, and golly if that doesn't suit how I fell about this story to a T. But I don't intend to abandon it any time soon, no sir.

* * *

It's half past seven in the morning, and Detective England Kirkland is still sitting at his desk, though his shift has long since ended (it is, in fact, scheduled to begin again quite soon). He's leaning on one arm, chin propped on his hand, half-dozing even as he reads yet another report of a superhero sighting downtown. This time, it's a botched attempt at a carjacking, the budding car thief left trussed up in an unconscious heap on the sidewalk by Rache. A blurry black-and-white photograph of the imposing hero is attached to the report with a paper clip, and England tries not to look at it for too long; of all the heroes that currently call Axis City home, Rache is the only one who's probably more frightening than the villains he fights. It's something about the huge, hooded cloak, England decides, and the way you can't see his eyes.

Setting the report aside, England reaches for the small bottle of aspirin on the corner of his desk, shakes two of the pills into his hand, and downs them with a mouthful of cold Earl Grey. He can't remember a time when he hasn't had a headache.

"Detective Kirkland?"

England startles, knocking over his mug. Brown liquid sloshes across his desk, staining the report he was reading before he can get it out of the way. England swears under his breath and rights the mug, doing his best to keep the damage to a minimum.

"Good morning, Canada," he says, wiping ineffectually at the ruined report. "My apologies, I didn't see you come in."

Canada sets down his backpack and the thermos he's holding to shift the remaining paperwork away from the spreading pool of liquid. He looks horrified, and a little like he might cry.

"I'm so sorry," he says. "I didn't mean to surprise you like that. Hold on, I'll get some paper towels."

He hurries to the break room, all the way yelling apologies over his shoulder. England looks down at the soggy papers in his hand; the photograph of Rache is soaked through, all the gradients of grey blotched and bleeding into one another. He plucks it out from under the paper clip and throws it away.

"Here let me—" Canada has reappeared, laden with what appears to be every mildly absorbent paper product he could carry, and he sets quickly to soaking up the mess. "I hope the tea didn't do any lasting damage," he says, sounding worried.

"No, it's nothing to worry about," replies England. He can always type up another copy of the report, if need be, and there are already dozens of pictures of Rache on file. Canada will probably spend the rest of the day feeling guilty as it is, there's no point in making him feel any worse.

Canada collects the mass of used paper towels into a large wad and deposits it delicately in the trash can next to England's desk. Then he stands, wiping his hands on his trousers, and frowns.

"You stayed here all night, again, didn't you?" When England gives him a questioning look, he adds, "The tea was cold. Besides, you look exhausted, and that's the same tie you wore yesterday. Have you slept at all?"

"I thought I was the detective here." It's meant to be joke, but it comes out angry and sharp. England spreads his hands in a conciliatory gesture and sighs. "A bit," he says, and doesn't mention that this is true only because he passed out cold on his desk halfway through a stack of witness testimonies from the recently thwarted robbery of the Allied Municipal Bank. "Mostly I've been trying to get through this backlog of paperwork. There's more of the stuff every day, so it just keeps piling up. To tell you the truth it's beginning to get overwhelming."

Canada makes a disapproving noise. "You're going to make yourself sick, Detective Kirkland," he informs England gravely.

Granting the younger man a weary smile, England shakes his head. "I appreciate your concern, Canada, but—"

"If you get sick and have to take time off," Canada interrupts quickly, then hesitates. "I—it's just, Detective Bonnefoy is the only other person who's been authorized to train new recruits for the Taskforce." He gives England a meaningful look, and England grimaces.

"I don't doubt that France would be overjoyed at the opportunity," he says, glancing up as the door to the room opens and a blue-clad young man hustles in, blond hair pulled back loosely, the faint trace of a beard lining his jaw.

England sighs again. "Speak of the devil."

"Talking about me, again, were you?" Grinning, France strides across the room to set his belongings on the desk across from England's.

"Hello, France," says England at the same moment that Canada yelps, "Good morning, Detective Bonnefoy."

France's eyes light up, and he slings an arm around Canada's shoulders.

"You're here so early, Canada! England isn't forcing to go on errands for him, is he? I know what a hardass he can be, but you shouldn't let him intimidate you with those terrifying eyebrows of his. If he's bothering you too much, just say the word, and I'll have the chief transfer you to my expert care." He breathes the last two words against Canada's neck, and Canada lets out a noise that borders on a squeak.

"It's nothing like that," he says quickly, all but shoving France away.

France looks like he's about to say something, but England speaks before he can.

"Officer Williams is always here this early, France, as this is when he's _supposed _to be in. You're the one who hasn't been on time for work in years. What's the special occasion?" He stands, mug in hand, to prepare himself a fresh cup of tea, watching France expectantly as he fills the kettle with water from the cooler. He's almost surprised when France doesn't pout and try to protest the accusation.

Instead, he turns to dig a newspaper out of his bag. "Ah, well. I see someone didn't read the paper this morning," he says.

England looks on uncomprehendingly as France smoothes it out carefully, and Canada, who is closer, catches sight of the headline and grows pale. Forgetting his tea, England reaches out for the paper and snatches it out of France's extended hand. Half of the front page is occupied by the cheerful, winsome figure of Captain Hero and his stupidly infectious smile, posing with cape fluttering and hands on his hips. He's surrounded by several starry-eyed children, all artfully arranged in front of the burnt-out husk of the orphanage run by the Sisters of the Holy Roman Order. It's an old picture, but it's not so strange that England recognizes it; the orphanage had gone up in flames during a rash of arsons not long after the start of Captain Hero's superheroing career, and his successful rescue of its entire population—the nuns as well as the children—had been a huge story. Still, England stares at the image for much longer than he should—much longer than is normal or appropriate, certainly—focusing on the blue eyes that stare out from behind that red domino mask like they can see him.

Embarrassingly enough, he doesn't even notice the headline itself until after his gaze has finished dragging itself down the length of Captain Hero's costumed body, but when he does, he nearly drops the newspaper.

Axis City Savior A Cold-Blooded Killer?  
Police Name Captain Hero as Suspect in Recent String of Robbery/Murders

Several emotions strike England at once, but they're varied and contradictory, tangled up in his chest like a fiercely knotted ball of yarn, and he can't sort them out properly. The only thing he feels for certain is that he's about to make a monumentally poor decision, but at the moment he's running on aspirin and adrenaline alone, and hadn't he gotten into this profession to pursue the truth?

"I'll be right back." England tosses his jacket over his shoulders, tucks the paper under one arm, and heads for the door.

"Wait, where are you going?" Canada stumbles after him, catching England by the arm. His eyes are wide and desperate. "Please don't leave me alone with him," he begs through clenched teeth.

England feels keenly that he deserves the betrayal evident in Canada's expression when he gently pushes the younger man away. "I'm sorry," he says, and it's harried and dismissive, which he'll feel absolutely rotten about later, but right now he can't afford to care. "I'll make it up to you," he swears, but it's as much to assuage his own guilt as to comfort Canada.

"Hey, you're not skipping out on me, are you?" France is perched on the edge of his desk, arms crossed disapprovingly.

"I'll be right back," repeats England. "I don't know what you're complaining about, anyway. I've been here for almost twenty-four hours straight. You hardly ever show up, and even when you do you just spend all day sitting on my desk and harassing Officer Williams."

At the insulted look of France's face, England scowls. "Don't give me that. You love proving me wrong; why don't you actually get some bloody work done while I'm gone? For starters, there's a stack of reports on my desk that Canada can help you to proofread, and the yellow forms over there need to be filled in. If by some miracle you finish all that, there are always more in the file room." He waves a hand dismissively, not sounding particularly hopeful. Then, purposefully avoiding Canada's eyes, England tugs up the collar of his coat and leaves the room like he's being chased.

The moment the door closes behind him, England lets out a sound that is dangerously close to a sob. He's a breath away from panicking, and the newspaper under his arm feels like it's burning a hole into his skin. Rushing through the precinct, he rolls up his left sleeve to expose a bulky silver watch, and his hand hovers over it hesitantly. He waits only as long as it takes him to get out of earshot of the building before he ducks into an alley and flips open the face, presses the small red button this action reveals. Then there's nothing he can do but wait.

Breathing slowly, in and out, as though struggling to remember how, England slumps against the grimy brick of the alley wall and closes his eyes. He can't do this anymore, doesn't know how he's kept it up this long. This constant, fierce conflict of interest within his own heart is exhausting him mentally and physically, and it's already begun to impact his performance at work, barely able to focus on the task at hand for how his mind is a thousand miles and three years away, where it very firmly _ought not to be_. It's not sustainable. Not apposite.

He feels a breeze, hears the soft pat of superhuman feet landing next to him. Cracking one eye open, a huge, dopey grin sneaks its way into England's stupid face, and his heart beats excitedly, erratically, as if trying to leap clear out of him. He presses a hand against his chest, feeling tired, ridiculous, and suddenly very, very happy.

"Yo, England. Where's the fire?" Captain Hero grins at him like a toothpaste advert, and the way this makes England's knees buckle is just irritating, really. "You look tired." The hero's brow puckers with concern, and he reaches out to trace the bruises under England's eyes with a careless thumb. England bats him away.

"Have you seen this?" He remembers why he's come here, why he risked calling Captain Hero to a spot only a few blocks away from a building full of people who want to see him handcuffs (as if handcuffs could ever hold him). England thrusts the newspaper at Captain Hero's heroic chest (he's heroically proportioned all over, really, and England always tries _so very hard _not to notice this, but so rarely succeeds), and the Captain takes it with a puzzled expression.

"Oh hey," is the first thing he says when he sees it. "I'm on the front page! Again." He smirks cheekily, but it doesn't last long. When he spots the headline, his face drops so drastically that it might be comical under different circumstances. His lips move silently as he continues to scan the story, the crease between his eyebrows deepening as if he simply can't understand what he's reading. He looks up at England, resembling nothing more than a kicked puppy.

"Is this for real?" His voice is soft, wounded.

"Of course it's 'for real'," England snaps, because what he really wants to do is comfort him, to step forward, expression soft and reassuring, to promise him that everything will be all right and wrap his arms around him and never let go. But he's tried that. And experience tells reliably him that this cold reserve is better for everyone, in the long run. "Do you honestly think I'd go through all the trouble of making up a fake newspaper just to mess around with you?"

Captain Hero frowns. "But, I don't understand. I'm a superhero. I _help _people. How could anyone think I'd do something like this?"

It's that ridiculous, unceasing optimism, the invincible naiveté, that England will never stop loving him for. He remembers when he was one of the select few who ever got to see the smile that Captain Hero now gives thoughtlessly to the press' cameras, back when that vibrancy and borderline-selfish determination to make good were part of something that was England's alone. He knows it's probably selfish of him to miss those days—no, not to _miss _them, perhaps, but to want them back the way he does—but the longing is like breathing, something he can't get rid of any more than he can dig out his own marrow.

"You had to know that something like this would happen," he says. "How long did you really think this hero lark could last?"

Captain Hero stares morosely at the paper, and England lets out a frustrated breath.

"The police have been looking for a way to break up your little gang since the lot of you put on your blasted capes, you know that. You make them feel useless and inadequate." He half expects the other man to point out that not all the members of the Alliance of Superheroes actually wear capes.

He doesn't.

Captain Hero blinks, surprised, and looking like England has just slapped him. "Is that how you feel?" he asks.

Of course that's how he feels; that's how he's _always _felt around him, but this is an unwanted answer to an unasked question, so England keeps his mouth shut.

"Is it?" Captain Hero takes a step forward, suddenly serious, and England wonders whether he's properly understood the question, after all.

"America." He means is as a warning. This can't become personal, can't be about the two of them, because that would mean that he's betraying his brothers on the Force, going behind their backs for a pretty face and a smattering of memories that he ought rightly to forget (ought rightly to have forgotten a long time ago), and that isn't what this about at all. This is about principles, about defending the right of a person to help those who need them when nobody else can, even if it means transgressing the boundaries of what some regard as Right.

"I'm not going to answer that. We have much larger things to worry about at the moment, in case you hadn't noti—are you _pouting _at me?"

"Heroes don't _pout_," sniffs America, and he's _so childish_, but this does woefully little to diminish England's desire to do very, very adult things to him (and he is most undeniably pouting, but England won't be the one to point that out). He still has that expression in his eyes, though, looking at England as though trying to read something in his face, and his lips are moving, again, but no sound is coming out. His mouth presses into a thin line, and he holds the newspaper up in one hand.

"You don't believe I did this, do you?"

The question is nothing if not somber, and the moment seems incredibly significant for some reason. What England does now will _matter, _so of course he snorts and retorts, "Don't be stupid. If I actually thought you'd killed someone, would I come to warn you about it?"

America laughs. "Yeah, I guess not." He glances down at the newspaper, again, but this time his smile falters only a little. His eyes rise slightly, and he gestures towards England's wrist. "I forgot all about that thing. I'm amazed you still have it."

England jumps when America reaches out to grab the wrist that bears the silver watch with his free hand.

"How long ago did I even give this to you?" He runs a thumb along the band, his gloved touch glancing every now and then across bare skin, and England jerks his hand away.

How long ago? It's felt like several lifetimes from where England's standing.

A shrug. "When did you quit the Force? Three years ago? Personally, I'm amazed the bloody thing still works."

"Three years," confirms America, sounding almost guilty, which is so unfamiliar, so unexpected that England isn't sure how to feel about it. "You've never used it before. Have you been wearing it this whole time?" He laughs, a little condescendingly, but without any intended cruelty. "Why?"

"Why indeed," mumbles England, his tone distinctly bitter, almost self-deprecating. The honest answer to that is more than embarrassing, the memory behind it locked up where England keeps the things that leave him breathless with tears when he dreams about them.

"I used to think it might be useful," he says finally. "I suppose I just got into the habit of putting it on every morning."

"Sure, sure," America grins, elbowing England playfully in the side. "You wear it because it reminds you of me, don't you?"

He doesn't notice the way England sucks in a breath at that, stiffens (he has no idea how fucking _perceptive _he is, because he never means to be); he's caught up in the shallow world of his own humor, laughing for the sake of hearing himself laugh. The words are thrown carelessly away for the sole purpose of teasing England, and this might be what hurts about them most; the words themselves might be the sword, he thinks, but the way they're said, how quickly they're forgotten—those are the sharp edges.

Scowling, England edges away from America, tearing the watch off his wrist and shoving it into the pocket of his coat.

"Well, excuse me for trying to be a friend," he hisses. "I'll be sure to avoid that in the future." He turns to leave, but America catches him by the shoulder.

"Hey, wait. C'mon, England, don't go. I didn't mean to make you angry. I haven't seen you in ages." He has England by both shoulders, now, so really any attempts to storm off would only look foolish, at this point. "Whaddya say we go grab something to eat, huh? I'm dying for a burger."

"It's eight in the morning," replies England incredulously, never mind the fact that he's expected back at work or the fact that leaving Canada alone with France will not only guarantee that no work will get done, but creates a situation comparable to leaving for holiday with the stove on, the kitchen floor covered in petrol, and the cat bowl full of matches. Provided, of course, that this is all somehow a metaphor in which the cat gets molested.

America grins, crumples the newspaper into a ball with one hand and tosses it over his left shoulder. "Never too early for a burger," he insists. "C'mon, I'll buy."

When he grabs England's hand, it stops being a choice. Suddenly, England is starving, and how do you say 'no' when Captain Hero asks you out to breakfast?

Of course, he'll be damned before he ever lets America know he feels that way. Pulling his hand away, he raises an eyebrow. "I hope you were planning to change? I don't know many restaurants with dress codes relaxed enough to allow capes."

"That's because you've never been out with Captain Hero," America tells him knowingly. "I can't even remember the last time I got charged for a meal when I was suited up." His smile is so infuriatingly _smug_-England bites back a mad longing to lick it off his face.

"Well I'mnot going out in public with you dressed like that," he says dryly. "Besides, do you have any idea what would happen to me if I were to be seen out at a meal with Captain Hero? I'd be promptly dismissed, at the very least."

"Yeah, yeah," America concedes. "I'll change my clothes so you don't lose your boring job."

"I happen to enjoy my work, I'll have you know," says England, which is true enough. Sometimes. "We can't all abandon honest law enforcement to go gallivanting off into the sunset playing cowboys and superheroes."

America gives a short, snorting laugh. "What? Dude, you're so weird. I already said I'd change. We'll stop by my place before we go anywhere else. Happy?"

England hesitates, which America takes as a 'yes'.

"All right, then!" he says cheerfully. "How d'you wanna do this?"

"I beg your pardon? Do what?"

America has both arms held out and is looking over England appraisingly.

"We're not gonna _walk_," he says, as though this should have been obvious, and the moment his comment clicks, England nearly chokes on the horrified noise clawing its way up the back of his throat.

"You don't me—we aren't going to _fly_."

If America actually hears the objection, he gives no sign. "Now the way I see it," he continues. "We've got two options, here: around the waist or bridal style."

"What?" says England, because this is _not happening._

"Well I can either grab you around the waist like this—" Without any further warning, America swoops forward and wraps both arms around England's torso, drawing him in until England's face is pressed into the crook of his neck and _this is not happening_. There's no way he can miss the way England's face heats up, the way his heartbeat kicks up to race like a startled rabbit's, but his only reaction is to add, "And you just have to put your arms around my neck or something to hold on."

This is not happening. England flails frantically until America steps away, screws his eyes shut and takes a long, slow breath. "This hardly seems efficient," he points out once it feels as though he has a little more control over himself. Any longer in that close proximity and he would undoubtedly have done something he would very quickly have regretted.

"Hm," says America, and it's purely England's own wishful thinking that makes is seem like the hero's cheerful expression wavers. "Would you rather do bridal style? Or I guess I could carry you on my back."

"Absolutely not," says England immediately (and so help him if the next words out of America's mouth are anything close to "fireman's carry"). He can't think of anything to back up this declaration that America would find particularly convincing, so he settles instead for a determined glare. When America's only response is to look distinctly unconvinced, he sighs, raising a hand to knead at the bridge of his nose.

"Perhaps now isn't the right time," he suggests. He's come to rely on the fact that the right thing to do is usually not the thing he wants to do (and while this does not always offer him a certain answer, it does narrow down the options nicely), so he swallows his immediate instinct to acquiesce to America's proposed solution and, instead, tosses the offer away entirely. "I think we may be better suited to meet later—after my shift ends, perhaps? That should be a more appropriate hour for your burger, at any rate."

America crosses his arms across his chest, his cheeks puffed out in a ludicrous, thwarted expression. "Geez, dude, I'm not gonna _force_ you to hang out with me if you really don't want to, you know."

"It's not that I don't want to," says England a little too quickly. America brightens noticeably. England looks at him out of the corner of his eye as a knowing smirk uncoils across America's lips, tries to hold his ground, as if this limited view of him might reduce the irresistible magnetic pull of America's smile. Finally, a thoroughly frustrated England lets out a soft, resigned sigh and throws up his hands in irritation.

"Damn it. I…bridal style then, I suppose," he relents.

…

For what feels like the hundredth time Detective Kirkland's unexplained departure, Canada peels Detective Bonnefoy's hand off his knee and returns to his work (it's been over four hours, and he is trying not to worry, so even the tedium of paperwork is a welcome distraction). Detective Bonnefoy sighs hugely, pushing back his chair to stand and stretch. He leans down and plucks the pen deftly from between Canada's busy fingers, waving it teasingly back and forth.

"It's not your job to do England's work, you know," he informs Canada when the younger man snatches it away again.

"I know that." Canada doesn't remind Detective Bonnefoy that this is, in fact, sort of _his _job. "But there's too much for Detective Kirkland to do it all on his own, even if he tries his hardest. And I really don't mind helping."

Detective Bonnefoy does not seem to get the hint.

"I don't see any harm in taking a break," he persists. He gestures towards the stack of papers in front of Canada with disdain. "Put this away for now. I'll order lunch."

Canada tries to protest, but Detective Bonnefoy is already on the phone, speaking animatedly to the owner of the Chinese restaurant down the street and, from the sound of it, ordering enough fried rice to feed a small army. He must know the person on the other end of the line fairly well; the order is followed by a lengthy and slightly flirtatious conversation that is punctuated with large, airy hand gestures and several jokes of a distinctly sexual nature (then again, Canada wouldn't really be all that surprised if Detective Bonnefoy didn't know the other person at all).

Canada clears his throat loudly and begins to pile his completed work neatly on the corner of Detective Kirkland's desk. The noise catches Detective Bonnefoy's attention.

"Ah—yes, well, I'm afraid I have to go. Duty call, you know..Yes, yes, you too. _Á bientôt_." He hangs up and shoots Canada a smile. "I hope you're hungry." His tone is casual, but there's something about the way he says it—the way he says _everything_—that starts a blush tearing up the back of Canada's neck.

Embarrassed for a reason he cannot place, Canada looks down at his, unable to meet Detective Bonnefoy's face. "Yeah, I guess," he mumbles.

"Canada," croons Detective Bonnefoy fondly. Without warning, he throws both arms around Canada's shoulders and presses their cheeks flush together. "You really are much too uptight for someone so young and adorable."

"I'm not uptight," Canada protests, squirming in Detective Bonnefoy's embrace. "Please, Detective Bonnefoy—"

"France," corrects the detective immediately. It takes Canada a moment to process that his voice sounds muted because his face is nuzzled against the side of Canada's hair. He says something else, but it's too muffled and soft to hear, almost more breath than speech, and Canada knows he ought to push Detective Bonnefoy away. This is so inappropriate, they're at _work _for goodness' sake, and irresponsible, distracting, and _oh God _what would Detective Kirkland say if he walked in on the two of them like this? On top of that, Canada is positive that he's never given Detective Bonnefoy any sign that such attentions would be welcome (all right, there was a slight chance he'd caught Canada staring at him one too many times during Canada's first week of training, before Canada had learned to be more subtle, but other than).

When a mouth skims along the line of his jaw, Canada's breath hitches in his throat.

"Detective Bonnefoy," he says firmly. "Please cut that out." He leans away from Detective Bonnefoy and raises a hand to interrupt the amorous activities. He should probably be doing more, yelling at him or hitting him or shoving him away, but, as always, Detective Bonnefoy backs off when Canada asks him to, albeit reluctantly.

"You shouldn't do that," Canada tells him, expression serious.

Detective Bonnefoy reaches out to twist a strand of Canada's hair between thumb and forefinger. His smile hits Canada in a way that makes his chest ache.

"Why not?"

This is a question that Canada should be able to answer very easily, quickly, and in a dozen different, equally convincing ways. When he realizes that he can't, he makes several choked, breathy noises and, panicked, grabs at Detective Bonnefoy's hand to untangle it from his hair.

Their fingers catch, and he thinks longingly of paperwork.

"You better be behaving yourself in there!" The door slams open to reveal a dark-haired young man with a mildly annoyed expression and arms full of brown paper bags that smell like heaven.

Canada gasps in surprise, pushing himself away from Detective Bonnefoy so abruptly that he nearly knocks over the chair he's in. "D-Detective Wang!"

Still smiling and calm, France raises a hand in greeting. "Not that I'm not happy to see you, China, but what are you doing here? It's your day off isn't it?" He reaches for the bags China is carrying. "Ah, is that lunch?"

Detective Wang purses his lips and pulls the bags out of his reach. "Don't just pelt me with questions the second I walk through the door. I'm here because Detective Kirkland called me to say he wasn't feeling well. He asked me to fill in for him and make sure you don't bother the trainee too much."

Detective Bonnefoy pouts, which only earns him a rather nasty look from Detective Wang.

"Detective Kirkland is sick?" asks Canada, concerned. He shakes his head. "I knew this was going to happen with the hours he's been keeping." He isn't generally the type to tell anyone 'I told you so', but.

"He's probably just playing hooky," says Detective Bonnefoy dismissively.

Canada looks down at his hands. "You're the only one who plays hooky around here," he tells Detective Bonnefoy, unable to keep a certain measure of fondness out of his voice. "I don't think I've seen Detective Kirkland take a day off since I started here. He's probably the hardest working person in the entire precinct." He startles a little and adds, "Um, I mean, I hope I didn't offend you, Detective Wang."

Detective Wang shrugs. "No offense taken. Besides, I'm sure England'll be fine. Have something to eat and don't worry about it, okay?" He sets down the bags and begins to unpack several large Styrofoam boxes from inside.

Detective Bonnefoy grins and grabs at a pair of chopsticks. "I'm starving. Hand me some of that rice, would you, China?"

Detective Wang complies, immediately turning to tuck into a greasy heap of noodles of his own.

"Oh, by the way, France," he adds though a full mouth, motioning at Detective Bonnefoy with his chopsticks. A noodle dangles precariously from the tip, and Canada watches as it falls to the tabletop with a soft _plat. _"Korea asks me to say hello."

They eat for a while in companionable silence, Canada picking at his food and trying to ignore the fact that Detective Bonnefoy is scooting closer and closer to him. Knowing that Detective Kirkland is ill at home is better than not knowing where he is at all, Canada supposes, but not by very much. He remembers the way Detective Kirkland rushed out of the office, pale and worried and harassed, and the incident doesn't seem related, but it refuses to leave his mind.

After a while, Detective Wang throws away his empty container and goes to the file room to collect the day's batch of new paperwork.

"You stick to all this old stuff," he instructs Canada. "I'll make this lazy guy help me with the new reports. We might be able to make a dent in them before England gets back that way."

Canada nods his understanding, more than willing to help. He doesn't have too much more to do on his end, so he continues to pick at his food and pretend to eat while he waits for Detective Wang to return.

"May I?" Detective Bonnefoy is leering at him (and somehow it's charming, but it's beyond Canada how this is possible), chopsticks raised and aimed at Canada's food.

"Oh," says Canada. "Um, sure. Go ahead."

Grinning, Detective Bonnefoy allows himself a generous mouthful of Canada's nearly-untouched lo mien, watching the younger man thoughtfully as he chews.

"Not a fan of take out?" he asks finally.

Canada stares at his food to avoid making eye contact. "I like it fine," he replies quickly. He's honestly just not that hungry, and he knows exactly why, but it's not something he can explain to Detective Bonnefoy, can't explain the anxiety and concern that are making him distracted and distant. There would be consequences Canada doesn't even want to think about, for the rest of the Taskforce as well as for him, and he won't be the reason for that. He thinks for a moment that whatever Detective Kirkland has come down with must be contagious, because suddenly he's starting to feel very nauseous.

Detective Bonnefoy offers him a dumpling, but Canada refuses it with a little shake of his head.

"Are you feeling all right, _chéri_?" He raises a hand to Canada's forehead and makes a _tsk _sound with his tongue. "I hope you're not ill, as well."

For a moment, Canada leans into his touch, his eyes fluttering closed. He feels a little like crying, which just makes the other urges he's fighting at the moment seems even more ridiculous and obscene.

"I'm fine," he replies. "It's probably just the food. I don't have this kind of thing very often." It's a blatant lie, but an easy lie to tell, and one that Detective Bonnefoy doesn't dispute, despite the fact that he's almost certainly seen Canada eat takeout at work more times than he can count. Instead, he fixes Canada with a quick, appraising look before sighing hugely and turning away.

"I wish you would let me buy you some real food," he says, a familiar start to a familiar offer. "I know this great little bistro downtown—"

"Okay," says Canada, so casually and quietly that Detective Bonnefoy seems caught totally off-guard. For a moment, he just watches Canada, blinking in startled confusion as Canada calmly begins to clean up the remains of the takeout.

Then he reaches out, touches the back of Canada's hand.

"What was that?"


	2. Origin Story

**Title: **Watch the Sky  
**Genre: **angsty, angsty superhero drama/romance  
**Pairings: **(in this chapter) none...ish  
**Rating: **PG-13 for language  
**Warnings: **AU, slash  
**Word Count: **1,375  
**Summary: **For three years, the police of Axis City have had a hesitant, unspoken truce with the resident Alliance of Superheroes. However, when an up-and-coming politician sparks a war between the two, Detective England Kirkland must allow himself to be the villain in order to save the system, and the people, he has sworn to protect.

Blake Bishop, Gluttonous Meirene, LaRequinne, letafart, Master of the Boot, dreamscape9000, Blank?, Libra Balancing Act, and Gaarahottie: I LOVE YOU ALL. Thank you so, so much for your kind, often beautifully detailed reviews-they are endlessly more than I deserve, considering how long I've gone between updates. This chapter is for you, and I hope you continue enjoy it as much as you enjoyed the first.

**Author's Note: **This story has been heavily edited as of 11 November, 2012. In fact, if you read this chapter before that date, well, shucks, you haven't actually read this chapter. It's all brand new context, dudes (okay, not _all _of it), hope you dig it.

* * *

The Westfront Police Department finds itself at something of a loss when it becomes clear that the unknown vigilante who's cropped up in their city has no intention of stopping. Officers on patrol are constantly finding evidence of his handiwork along their routes—would-be members of the criminal element with their arms lashed around lampposts, fire hydrants, and street signs, groggy and weak and always with a note pinned assiduously to their clothes: a single illustrated haiku in neat calligraphy, invariably signed 'The White Samurai'. Fearing the possibility of copycat activity, the Chief of Police in Westfront holds a press conference demanding that the man who calls himself The White Samurai cease and desist immediately or face legal action. One week later, a warrant is issued for his arrest, and a reward offered to anyone who might have information about his true identity. As far as the law is concerned, The White Samurai is a criminal and a wanted man.

The opinion of much of Westfront's civilian population, however, does not reflect that of its law enforcement. They have been raised on the Sunday-morning staple of the comic book, and they know a superhero when they see one. They revel in the idea of a brave new world that includes a genuine superhero to follow in the fictional footsteps of Centurion and The Green Huntsman, Sphinxara and Goddess Girl. Soon, the blurry newspaper photographs of the ghostly figure with the gleaming sword on his hip find their way to blogs and discussion boards run by eager fans who swap stories of potential sightings and engage in heated debates about whether or not the many rumors that circulate around The White Samurai could possibly be true (there are stories of police cruiser sirens going mute when they get too close to him, of grateful citizens being unable to hear their own voices when they try to thank him, of a swift and soundless shadow that trails total and oppressive silence behind it like the tail of a cloak). As far as the frequenters of these sites are concerned, living in Westfront makes them residents of the first real-life Windy City, and the connection terrifies as many as it thrills.

And then there are those who watch the situation develop with a different kind of interest, cautious but optimistic, hopeful recognition kindling something in them that has felt restless and isolated for a very long time.

…

In an elegantly-furnished third-floor apartment in the North End, a young man stares at the evening news with a stony expression, pushes his glasses up his nose, and comes to a decision.

…

Halfway across the city, a bright-eyed young woman with an uncannily cat-like smile races down the street towards the houseboat she shares with her older brother. Cradled in her arms is today's newspaper, and a headline announcing that, four months after The White Samurai's debut, another costumed hero has been spotted in Westfront.

…

Over in the Central District, the cast and crew of _La Pasión no se Detiene_ have just broken for lunch, and the hugely-popular soap opera's lackadaisical star takes advantage of the lull in filming to grab some quick shut-eye. Someone's left him a copy of _The Westfront Reader _in his dressing room_, _and he means to clear it off the sofa and forget about it, but that doesn't happen. The front page is taken up completely by the only posed picture anyone has ever managed to take of Westfront's quartet of super-powered protectors—the ever-stoic Richter Scale is nearly out-of-frame all the way on the right, arms crossed and face turned away; Slingshot, the only one of the four who's smiling, has one hand tucked into the crook of Smokescreen's elbow, the other raised in a fist as she flexes a bicep for the camera; Smokescreen towers over her despite his hunched posture, expression all but unreadable behind his mask. On the far left of the shot, The White Samurai stands almost a foot away from the rest of them, clutching his sword in front of him with both hands as if he's trying to hide behind it.

Above the picture is a single question: Superheroes United?

...

He's frowning in thought, the young man in the locker room, anxious to get home and swap out his uniform for one in which he has rapidly become more comfortable. He's holding his left arm somewhat stiffly—it's nothing that won't heal, more an irritating reminder of his own momentary carelessness than anything else, but it was a bad fall, and the injury has put him out of commission for far longer than he'd like. Even the newspapers have begun to notice. He places his cap carefully into his locker, smoothes down his dark hair, and as he turns to grab his jacket, something happens that hasn't happened to him for a long time: he's surprised.

"Sergeant," he says. They should be on much more familiar terms by now, but he can't ever seem to bring himself to forget the two steps in rank that separate them. He's also trying to not to let it show how much it rattles him that he can still be snuck up on, and the polite formality is his default when he's nervous.

The Sergeant stares at him, olive-green eyes calm and unreadable as ever, but doesn't say anything. Most of the time, the Sergeant moves as though he lives his life slightly out of sync with the rest of the world, settings stuck permanently on slow motion. Too many people assume his laid-back attitude and unhurried pace mean that he's stupid, but he's not stupid. And as it turns out, when he doesn't want to be, he isn't even all that slow.

The sudden hand on his injured arm is the second surprise of the day, and the young man's protests die in his throat, because it hurts, but. Then it doesn't, anymore. He glances up, eyes wide, and is rewarded with a small, slow, determined smile.

"Let me come with you."

…

There are six of them by the time The Westfront Heroes' League goes official: The White Samurai, Richter Scale, Slingshot, Smokescreen, El Matador and Panacea. All six have warrants out for their arrest, and at least one fan club running unofficial-official websites on their behalf. El Matador has four.

…

There are no superheroes in Axis City. In fact, it's been years since there were superheroes anywhere when, on a humid Monday morning, Officer England Kirkland fiddles with the radio of his patrol car, the cuffs of his uniform, a loose thread on his trousers. From the passenger seat, his partner makes a face and laughs.

"Dude, you are way fidgety today," he notes.

England raises an eyebrow at him. "You're fidgety all the time," he replies.

His partner sighs, nodding, and leans back in his seat. "It's nervous energy, you know? There hasn't been a ton of action around here lately, in case you hadn't noticed." He frowns, tucking blonde fringe under the brim of his cap. "I'm getting _bored_."

The way he says it makes it sound like an atrocity on par with war and famine and global warming.

England makes a disapproving little noise. "What did you think it would be like when you got into this? Car chases and shoot-outs and explosions at all hours of the day?"

"Well, yeah," says his partner, as if this should have been obvious. "That's what it's like in the movies."

He's painfully naïve for someone his age, but honestly England would have him no other way. England laughs, shaking his head, and turns to look out his window. "I think you'll find that reality is most often very little like the movies, America," he says.

America heaves a heavy, long-suffering sigh. "Well that's stupid. I didn't become a police officer to sit around all day in a smelly car while my butt falls asleep," he complains.

"Why _did _you become a police officer?" It's something England's always been curious about, but this is the first time it's come up of its own accord, without his having to force it into the conversation.

Without a moment's hesitation, America responds, "I wanted to be a hero."

* * *

_Boy howdy, look at all those superhero names._  
At first, I intended to blend my own Hetalia-brand superhero mythos into the existing (DC and Marvel) universes, but that felt sort of clunky, so here we go, welcome to Hetalia, we read Empire Comics here.  
And for the curious, Windy City is the stomping ground of Shadowknight, the Cloaked Warrior. His parents are deeeeeeeeead.


	3. Into the Frying Pan

**Title: **Watch the Sky  
**Genre: **superomangst  
**Pairings: **(in this chapter) some one-sided(?) USUK, Franada  
**Rating: **PG-13 for language  
**Warnings: **AU, slash  
**Word Count: **6,381  
**Summary: **For three years, the police of Axis City have had a hesitant, unspoken truce with the resident Alliance of Superheroes. However, when an up-and-coming politician sparks a war between the two, Detective England Kirkland must allow himself to be the villain in order to save the system, and the people, he has sworn to protect.

**Author's Note **(last chapter I have to post this bad boy in, aw yeah)**:** This story was (in my humble, authorly opinion) in dire need of some drastic, dramatic editing, and, as of 11 November, 2012, it has received just that. If you've read this story previously, you may want to go back and re-read the previous two chapters, especially as the second chapter is now entirely different-I promise, brand new content and everything. You may also recognize a good deal of this chapter from what was once Chapter 2, but it has been HEAVILY edited (for the better, I think), and the end bit has been completely re-written (as well as some new content in the beginning).  
Phew, all right, now that tedious business is out of the way, let's get on with the shooooow.

* * *

They touch down in another alley, and England has barely found his balance again before America takes off—this time on foot, but he might as well be flying for how difficult it is to keep up with him. He vaults effortlessly over a chain link fence and turns the corner into an even narrower passage that England has to turn to sideways to fit through. He comes out on the other side in an enclosed courtyard. Dusting off his jacket, he looks around for America. He'd been generous to call this little space a courtyard; it's a patch of scrubby grass sandwiched between massive concrete buildings, broken up by a bone-dry fountain and a bench that has long since collapsed into a pile of molding wood. Leaning against the pile, half-obscured by a clump of yellow weeds, is a chipped lawn ornament painted an alarming shade of mint green. It looks a little like it might have been a rabbit in another life, and England would be tempted to investigate further if it weren't for the very conspicuous absence of something England is rather more concerned about—well, some_one_.

America is not here. England swears under his breath and scans the courtyard again, as if there's actually a chance that he could've missed that flamboyant get-up when it's impossible to be farther than ten feet away from anyone else around. There's no way he took a wrong turn—there had been no other turns to _take_—but it is possible that America has simply gotten too far ahead of him, plowing obliviously on without stopping to make sure England was still behind him (because there's no way he did it on purpose, right? America can be thoughtless and insensitive, but he's never been deliberately cruel).

Understanding the situation, though, doesn't get him any closer to knowing what to do about it.

"England! Up here, dude!"

England looks up. America is leaning over the railing of a fire escape high up over England's head, and he's probably grinning, but England is squinting at him through a glare, so it's hard to tell.

"Gimme your hand." He reaches down, waggles gloved fingers invitingly just out of England's reach.

"Is there no easier way to do this?" England has to stand tip-toed and jump a little to touch him, but the second he does, America's hand closes and he _pulls, _and England has no idea how it happened (or how his arm hasn't been torn clean from the socket), but here he is clinging to America like some swooning idiot in distress while America propels the two of them up the fire escape virtually one-handed. It would probably be a very stupid and ultimately painful decision to let go, England thinks, so he grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut and waits for it to be over.

There's a moment when he's terrifyingly certain that they're airborne, then the gravity of America landing bodily on a fire escape on the next building over. When he cracks the window open, England all but flings himself through.

…

Somehow, Canada manages to make it well into the afternoon without throwing up. Despite this small victory, or possibly because the sheer force of will it calls for takes up most of his concentration, he gets woefully little work done after lunch. He can't focus. He's too edgy, skin prickling, and every time he lifts his head, Detective Bonnefoy is _looking _at him, equal parts sly triumph and genuine, unashamed excitement that leave Canada powerless to do anything but stare mutely back.

At least until Detective Wang notices and whacks Detective Bonnefoy over the head with a manila folder for being distracting, that is. Detective Bonnefoy glares in protest, smoothes down his hair. Canada shoots Detective Wang a smile that is grateful, but strained, and stares down at the desk in front of him as a blush tears hot across his face. There's only so long he can ignore the fact that he's more or less agreed to go on a date with Detective Bonnefoy; rationalize it all he wants (he hadn't realized what he was agreeing to, wasn't thinking, just wanted Detective Bonnefoy to drop the subject and leave him alone), that's what it comes down to in the end, and the most he can really to at this point is try to convince himself that he's not looking forward to it.

He's never been a very persuasive person.

Detective Kirkland would _definitely _not approve.

…

England is surprised to find that America is still living in the same dingy, little flat that he had been three years ago (then again, superheroing can't exactly be a terribly well-paying position, despite the profession's considerable risk). In fact, the place has barely changed at all; it's like opening a door and stepping straight into the past, complete with a familiar sick, nervous feeling and a carpet that is, arguably, made entirely of discarded socks and fast food wrappers.

It makes England dizzy—the sensation is somewhere between déjà vu and vertigo—and sends him reeling across the room to sit, hard, on the edge of the battered sofa.

America doesn't seem to notice his reaction.

"Make yourself at home," he says, spreading his arms in a gesture of welcome. "You remember where stuff is, right? I'll be back in a sec."

England glances after him as America goes into the bedroom and shuts the door solidly behind him. He shifts on the sofa, running a hand along the well-worn leather, unsure whether a smile would be the appropriate expression for what he's feeling.

"I see you still have this ratty old sofa," he calls over his shoulder.

The door to the bedroom cracks open, and America sticks out his head. The mask is off, and his hair is even more disheveled than usual (the word that comes to mind is belligerent, but really, what sort of adjective is that for hair?), his shoulders noticeably bare. England pointedly avoids looking at him.

"What?"

"The sofa," repeats England, and looking at _that_ is no better than looking at America (the two are so bound up in his memories of the flat that either is currently enough to start heat simmering under his skin), so he stares at his feet, instead.

"What about it?" asks America. He doesn't look annoyed, just puzzled, but England feels flustered regardless.

"Never mind," he mumbles. "Just hurry up and get ready, will you?"

An angry frown tugs at America's mouth. "I'm _trying_," he replies. "You're the one who interrupted me." Without waiting for a response, he turns back into the room, slamming the door with an irritated mutter of "Geez".

England huffs out a defeated breath and drops his head into his hands. He glances sideways, down the length of the sofa, and tries not to think about it.

When America finally reappears, he is sullen and quiet, eyeing England as though trying to gauge whether or not he should still be angry from England's expression. England, for his part, tries to look conciliatory, but only succeeds in looking tired.

This is apparently good enough for America, who smirks, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed. It isn't until England notices the very deliberate way America tilts his chin up and _ever so slightly _to the left that he realizes America is _posing _and has to bite back a laugh (though in all honesty, it isn't exactly as though the effort is wasted on him).

"You ready to go? I dunno about you, but I could eat a horse."

"Er," says England. His mouth feels dry.

The prospect of asking America whether he's been working out is horrifying, but for a brief, insane moment, England considers it. There's certainly something to be said for a daily regimen of lifting cars, he thinks, sneaking a lingering glance at America's arms. It isn't as though his Captain Hero costume leaves anything to the imagination (it's all clinging white spandex that England would probably be better able to appreciate if he wasn't constantly distracted by the fact that America manages to keep it _clean_), but there's something about seeing all those unfamiliar muscles filling out a t-shirt he's seen America wear at least half a dozen times that's nothing short of intoxicating.

He thinks, dumbly, that the shirt finally fits America properly, and honestly what does that even _mean_?

England scrubs a hand across his face, tearing his gaze away from the preening hero.

"It's about time," he snaps. Ignoring the way America's face falls into a scowl, he hoists himself to his feet, leading the way to the door. He notices America lagging back, hanging close to the sofa, and his stomach drops. Hands curled lightly into fists, mouth kirked angrily, America definitely looks like he's reconsidering his offer to buy England breakfast, and while England has admittedly been sort of half-trying to influence him in this direction, he hadn't really thought it would _work_. America has always been notoriously good at getting things to go his way, has maybe changed his mind twice in all the time that England has known him. The only reason America would back down, England thinks, is if he doesn't really _want _to go anywhere with him.

"Are you coming, then?" The words tumble out before England can think to stop them, sounding less impatient and more like a plea. As if to compensate for this, England concentrates on keeping his expression under strict control, carefully expectant, not too eager, one eyebrow raised and his mouth set.

America looks up, surprise and bemusement dwindling down into an arrogant smile (there's something about it that's knowing, but maybe that's just England being paranoid).

"Ladies first," he croons, gesturing with one hand.

England sighs and rolls his eyes, throwing open the door and heading out into the hallway. America jogs after him a moment later, shrugging on a shabby bomber jacket as he goes. England glances at him briefly and allows a tiny smile to flicker over his lips. He still has that stupid jacket. Honestly, does the man throw nothing away?

America digs around in his pockets for a while, finally letting out a victorious "Aha!" as he finds what he's looking for. He pulls out a pair of silver-framed glasses, squints at them, then breathes on the lenses and rubs them on his sleeve.

"You wear glasses?" He hadn't even known that America needed glasses.

America slides them onto his nose and grins winningly. "Yep. They help protect my civilian identity. I figured it was only appropriate for a hero of my caliber, since Superguy's got them and all." He puffs his chest out a little, as if this somehow makes his point.

"Of course," allows England. They really do suit him, though they make him look deceptively mature. Older, as well, and so much like a strange, independent new person that England doesn't know that he can't help but feel nostalgic. He knows it's pointless to compare them, but some small, stupid part of himself (of which he firmly disapproves) is convinced that it's Captain Hero standing in front of him now, not the America he once knew. Captain Hero, who is capable and brave and beloved by nearly everyone in Axis City, who can leap tall building and take a bullet to the chest with nothing more than a smile, who walks daily though fire and comes out unharmed.

Who will never need him the way America did.

"Well," says England suddenly, embarrassed but his own train of thought and very, very grateful that mind-reading isn't under the wide umbrella of America's powers. "Shall we, er, shall we go, then? Do you have a place in mind already?"

America takes a beat to respond, but only because it seems to take him this long to figure out what England means.

"For burgers?" A short, dismissive noise. "Yeah, of course. A hero's always prepared," he tells England. "C'mon."

He grabs for England's sleeve, fingers catching instead around his wrist and staying there. England follows America in silence for a while, allowing himself to be toted along like a dog on a lead, his skin prickling with electricity where America is touching him. It's utterly baffling the way they've slipped back into this, the easy, meaningless physical contact that had always seemed almost brotherly, before. The endless, thoughtless, comforting little gestures, clapping shoulders and ruffling hair and one-armed embraces and—

_Brotherly, _thinks England with a snort. _Who are you trying to fool?_

With a scathing noise aimed entirely at himself, England jerks away from America's grasp.

"Christ, America, I'm not a child. I don't need to be lead around by the hand."

America turns around and stops abruptly, and England narrowly avoids running into him, stepping back to scowl questioningly up at him. America places a hand on the top of England's head and laughs.

"Are you sure?"

England bats him away. "Of course I'm su—was that a crack at my height?" He narrows his eyes. _Honestly, _he's not _that _much shorter than America.

"Noooo," drawls America, laughing again, not even bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. He turns lazily on his heel, eyes still on England and that wide, self-satisfied grin never leaving his face.

"Because I will have you know that I am a perfectly reasonable height for an average adult male," persists England, striding quickly to follow America as the younger man begins strolling amiably away. He easily outpaces England for the second time that day, and the fact that he probably has some degree of super-speed in him doesn't help matters. England pushes himself to keep up, huffing angrily and snatching several times at America's shoulder before he catches it.

"Slow down, would you? We don't all have your superhero stamina."

"Stamina's got nothing to do with it," America fires back. "It's your stumpy legs." He laughs, but also slows down considerably, until he and England are side-by-side. A few more half-hearted attempts to defend his stature later, England falls silent, and America fills in the empty space with inconsequential chatter, relating his heroic exploits with huge, enthusiastic gestures and a lack of humility only he could make so endearing.

Every now and then, he pauses to look at England, clearly expecting him to be very impressed with what he's hearing. England is quick to respond with a nod or the occasional interested noise. None of the stories are new to him; Captain Hero has been the Axis City media's golden boy since he caped up, and the top papers in the city seem to have been in competition to get him on the front page as often as possible ever since. England subscribes to most of them (for his job, of course, certainly not because of their strange obsession with America), and even if he didn't he hasn't been living with his head stuck under a rock.

"…and that's how they ended up renaming Liberty Boulevard after me. Isn't that awesome?"

"Hm," says England, and America continues at his usual warp-speed way of speaking without so much as glancing at him.

"And then there was that time I got the key to the city for saving all those people when that apartment building collapsed—you probably saw it on the news. It was all over the place—I mean, _every single channel_."

The day he got the key to the city. England bristles and grunts dismissively. "Like I have nothing better to do than watch television all day," he says brusquely. "I probably saw it, but only because it's my job to keep an eye on the Alliance, you know. And I certainly don't remember it now."

"No problemo, broski. I've got a bunch of the broadcasts on tape somewhere back at my place. You can watch it again later!" Laughing, America claps England enthusiastically on the back, using the contact to steer him effortlessly around the next corner.

If England resists, just slightly, just enough to feel the press of America's fingers curling against his back, it's only because of the sudden shift in direction has caught him by surprise, and America is strong enough for the gesture to pass unnoticed.

…

"What on _earth _is this?" Detective Bonnefoy stands in the doorway of the break room. He looks horrified, a small glass jar hanging from one raised hand.

Detective Wang looks up briefly from the paperwork in front of him, turns expectantly to Canada. He does more than his fair share of work on the Taskforce (most of them do, since Detective Bonnefoy tends to do rather less than his), but his particular work ethic means that he prefers to keep his head down and avoid the screaming matches that all too often result from Detective Kirkland's infuriated (and occasionally violent) attempts to get Detective Bonnefoy to "fill in a bloody report for once, you scruffy, wine-soaked git".

Which, on the rare occasions when Detective Kirkland isn't around, leaves Canada to deal with him. He doesn't _mind,_ most of the time, of course, but at the moment it does somewhat hinder his efforts to make Detective Bonnefoy forget that he exists.

"It's instant coffee, Detective Bonnefoy."

"_What _is it doing in the break room?"

"Um, well, I think it's in there in case someone wants coffee?"

"Disgraceful," sniffs Detective Bonnefoy archly. He drops the jar into the nearest wastepaper basket, wipes his hands delicately on his trouser leg. "No one should ever have to drink such horrible stuff. I'll fetch us some proper coffee, oui? Excusez moi."

In one smooth, flourishing motion, he slings his jacket over one arm and moves towards the door, his hand dropping to brush the line of Canada's shoulders as he passes.

"See you tomorrow," says Detective Wang, still not looking up. His sleeves are far too long for him, so the wave he gives Detective Bonnefoy over one shoulder makes him look a bit as though someone's stapled a small flag to him while he wasn't paying attention.

Detective Bonnefoy whirls around dramatically with an offended pout and a wounded cry of "China!"

A couple of months ago, Canada's brother had dropped by, as was his habit, without a word of warning and announced that he and Canada were long overdue for some "bro-time". This, as usual, meant that he wanted to watch a movie and couldn't force anyone else to watch it with him (or, as was the case this time, someone else he could threaten sufficiently to keep quiet about it—or the way he was angrily denying tears by the end). The title is escaping him, now (Lost in the Breeze, maybe?), but something about the theatrics of Detective Bonnefoy's gesture brings Canada straight back to the fierce-eyed heroine, and suddenly his spectacularly unhelpful brain has given him the mental image of Detective Bonnefoy in a dress made out of the precinct's shabby curtains, and oh god that's something he never needed, how is he ever going to get that out of his head?

Thankfully, both Detectives Bonnefoy and Wang are too otherwise preoccupied to notice Canada choking on what progresses very quickly from stifled laughter to startled horror.

Detective Bonnefoy, for example, is busy pouting. "What are you trying to imply, China?"

Detective Wang shrugs and turns another page in the report in front of him. "You always take breaks that last for your whole shift. You run out for lunch, I don't see you again all day."

"What a thing to say," says Detective Bonnefoy. He slams both hands onto Detective Wang's desk and leans toward him, distress etched into every line of his face. "How could you think I would abandon my duties so recklessly?"

"Past experience. Not get off my desk." Detective Wang waves an arm at Detective Bonnefoy, who backs up only after receiving a faceful of his coworker's sleeve. He glares at Detective Wang defiantly. It quickly becomes apparent that this is having no effect on Detective Wang at all, and he turns away huffily. His eyes land on Canada, and the resulting grin makes Canada shift in his chair (he's tempted to glance behind him, just to make sure he's the one Detective Bonnefoy is looking at, though whether or not he _wants _to be is still somewhat beyond him).

"Fantastique!"

"Pardon?" asks Canada, or tries to. Halfway through the word, his brain (which has already proven itself rather treasonous today), decides entirely without Canada's consent that 'What' would be much more appropriate for the situation, so what actually comes out of his mouth is "Puht?"

Detective Bonnefoy's expression is immediately fond, utterly pleased in a way that borders on manic and makes Canada seriously consider checking behind him, again. He stares back at something of a loss, and Detective Bonnefoy winks at him before spinning away to address Detective Wang.

"I'll bring Canada along," he announces, sounding exceptionally pleased with himself.

Detective Wang does not seem to share his sentiment. He frowns. "It's already bad enough with you running off, don't go dragging the trainee into it."

"Officer Williams is a very responsible young man," objects Detective Bonnefoy. "It's one thing to doubt my sense of obligation, but to suggest that Canada would—"

Detective Wang remains unmoved.

"You're getting to be as bad as England," Detective Bonnefoy tells him.

"So you keep telling me. Aiyaa, go on," he says finally. More than anything, Detective Wang sounds eager to be done with the conversation, whatever the outcome. "Make sure he comes back," he adds, looking pointedly at Canada and gesturing towards Detective Bonnefoy.

"I'll do my best," Canada promises, a little weakly.

…

America comes to a halt in front of a little café that looks very out-of-place wedged between a real estate office and a tax firm. The sidewalk in front of it littered with latticed, wrought-iron tables, and the plaque above the door reads _A Serpenyő. _England isn't even sure how to pronounce that, much less what it means. He'd been so sure that America was going to drag him to a fast-food joint, but this place actually looks _nice_.

There's only one problem, as far as England can see, and it comes in the form of a CLOSED sign in the café's front window. America isn't dissuaded in the least; he pushes open the front door (there's no cracking noise or obvious sign of damage, which hopefully means it was already unlocked and not that America has broken whatever inadequate lock might have been in place) and steps aside to let England in.

"What are you doing?" demands England. "The sign says it's closed."

America glances where England is gesturing, but his only reply is a shrug and a grin. "Don't worry about it, man. The owner's a friend of mine. She won't mind."

"She?" England doesn't ask, because America is allowed to have female friends, if he wants to, and England certainly has no right to have any opinion on the matter.

Inside, it's welcoming and warm and smells unmistakably of something baking. The walls are lined with huge, plush-looking booths, and there's a small bar with a television hanging above it. America strides up to it like someone entering their house and raps sharply on it with his knuckles. There's a loud crash from somewhere in the kitchen, and the door behind the bar slams open to reveal a young woman with a large frying pan in one hand and an even larger knife in the other. The door isn't even fully closed behind her, and England has already taken several large steps towards the exit.

For a long moment, the three of them do nothing but stare at one another, England's eyes glued to the knife as he scrabbles behind his back for the doorknob.

Then the young woman lets out a measure of laughter, a smile threading its way onto her face. Putting her makeshift weapons on the bar, she approaches America with open arms, and England realizes that she's _beautiful _when she doesn't look like she's about to kill someone, which does little to improve his mood as she fits herself neatly into America's embrace.

"Don't surprise me like that, I could've killed you!" She fixes her apron and brushes a curl of brown hair out of her eyes, swatting America on the head with the back of her hand. When America's expression turns into something far too soft—fond and proud and vaguely bashful—England crosses his arms and glares down at the floor, not feeling at all as though he is about to be sick.

"Ha, you could _try_," he hears America retort, and the young woman laughs again.

"You're such a brat," she says, but her voice is warm. "Now are you going to introduce me to your friend, or are you just going to let him stand there looking at his feet?"

It's ridiculous, admittedly, but England had honestly half-expected to go completely unnoticed, so hearing himself mentioned is startling enough to make jump. He looks up to find a pair of fervent green eyes peering at him with an excited but clinical sort of curiosity. It's unsettling, but England places a great deal of importance on politeness and professionalism, so he quickly gathers himself together enough to offer the young woman his hand and his name.

"England Kirkland. I'm, ah, an acquaintance of America's."

"You're England?" Suddenly, she seems several times more animated, which England hadn't even though possible. Her eyebrows rise nearly to her hairline, and she turns to grin at America. America shrugs a careless shoulder and waves a hand in England's direction.

"Hungary, this is England."

Hungary bites back a squeal of delight and seizes England's hand in both of her own. "Hungary Héderváry," she says, trembling like she's being introduced to someone famous. "It's so wonderful to meet you. America has told me so much about you—" (Here, England notices America shoot a dirty look at the back of Hungary's head and tries to catch his eye, but without success.)

"Has he?" asks England, mildly horrified as he attempts a mental list of all the humiliating things America might have told her. He turns a cross, expectant glare at the hero, only to find America turning a very distracting shade of pink.

"Oh yes," Hungary assures him, and England looks away from America to meet her happy gaze. "To be honest, I was beginning to think he had made you up, at least until he brought in that article about you in the _Herald _back in—"

"_Hungary_," hisses America. "Dude, can you not?"

Hungary gives England a distinctly conspiratorial (and vaguely wicked) grin, turns to America with wide eyes and an innocent query of "What?"

America glares back at her, looking fit to spit fire, but, noticing the curious look England is giving him, mumbles something inaudible and shifts his attention to cleaning his glasses with his shirt.

England clears his throat and removes his hand from Hungary's.

"It's, er, it's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Héderváry."

"Hungary," she corrects automatically.

England nods. "Hungary. Well, it's a pleasure to meet you. How exactly did you come to be acquainted with America?" America will no doubt be grateful for the change in topic, and England has always been extraordinarily good with small talk.

The only immediate response is a clattering sound as America's glasses hit the tiled floor of the café (so much for heightened reflexes). He snatches them up hurriedly under England's bemused scrutiny and slides them casually back onto his nose, ignoring England in favor of sending Hungary a look that England can't quite decipher.

Hungary smiles and crosses her arms. "We met here, actually. America's been a regular customer for years. I make the best burgers in Axis City, you know," she adds with a wink.

"Speaking of burgers." Having shaken off whatever had previously upset his usually unrelenting bravado, America grins and slings an arm around Hungary's slim shoulders. "D'you think you could hook me and the good detective up with some eats?"

"I should've known that's why you were here," Hungary laughs, shaking her head. "I've spoiled you rotten, letting you come in during off hours."

"Is that a yes?"

"Would you take no for an answer?" Starting towards the kitchen, Hungary retrieves her pan and knife from the bar and waves a hand in the direction of her friend and his guest.

"Sit anywhere you like," she tosses out, and America lets out a victorious whoop of joy.

Several minutes later, England finds himself seated in one of the café's cozy little booths, watching America inhale his second burger of the morning (Hungary obviously knew him well; she'd brought him three on the same plate). He'd turned on the television above the bar before sitting down, and now glances at it absentmindedly as he raises a mug of steaming tea to his lips. The weatherman for Channel 2 is just finishing up, and he and the anchor exchange the typical cardboard rapport before the latter launches cheerfully into the next story. It's about the apprehension of a recently-escaped convict (a technological-genius-turned-supervillain who calls himself The Son of Kalev) by Rapid Fire, the most recent addition to Axis City's Alliance of Superheroes—and the only one of them who carries a gun (well, _guns_). England recalls the initial panic this had caused among the Taskforce, but as far as he knows, Rapid Fire's impressive arsenal has never actually been put to any real use.

America's attention strays from his food long enough for him to notice what England is watching. He snorts a little, sending a gobbet of food firing from his overstuffed mouth. "Geez, you'd think it would kill the guy to look a little less bored at the press conferences," he says.

Rapid Fire doesn't really look bored, England thinks. Preoccupied, maybe, and slightly annoyed, definitely, but not bored.

"Your flair for the spotlight hasn't rubbed off on him yet, then?" he asks, teasing.

America shrugs, takes another sloppy bite from his burger. His response, as a result, is more lettuce than locution, so England lets the matter drop, winding his fingers through the handle of his mug and turning back to the television. The news anchor smiles brilliantly, chuckles at a joke England didn't hear. He shuffles his papers, shifts in his seat, and turns to the camera on his left. The camera cuts to the new angle, and like a cluster of clouds passing in front of the sun, the anchor's expression grows grave.

"In less happy news, Axis City police are still seeking to speak with resident Cape and head of Axis City's very own Alliance of Superheroes, Captain Hero, in connection with the recent string of deaths that have occurred in the Nantucket area over the past two months. Police claim that the deaths took place under mysterious circumstances, and all appear to have been committed by the same individual. ACPD Chief Greece Karpusi was unavailable for comment, but anyone who may have information on how to get in touch with Captain Hero is encouraged to contact the ACPD at the number on the bottom of your screen."

With that, it goes to commercial. England and America sit in silence (well, the relative silence of America chomping his way through his last burger) through several adverts. There's one about the release of some new, mindlessly violent action film that piques America's interest, and he tilts his head up to watch it better, a smear of catsup on his chin. England studies the contents of his mug.

"Yo, aren't you in charge of superhero stuff?"

"What?"

America gestures at the television. "You know, all the stuff the Alliance does. Aren't you guys supposed to be the ones in charge of that?"

"I—yes," says England carefully. That is, more or less, the purpose of the Taskforce: surveillance and record-keeping and, theoretically, taking action when they cross a line that prompts a legal response (aside from the obvious, of course).

"So d'you know why the police think I'm killing people?"

England opens his mouth. Then he closes it again. Because he doesn't, and it took America pointing it out to make him realize that there's something very, very wrong about that. Anything he ought to think or say stops dead at the mortified shock of this realization, a cold, heavy emotion that heats very rapidly into fury.

"No," he says. "No I don't. This is absolutely—I can't believe I don't know." He sets his mug down hard enough that it spills over a little. "I should have been told about this _weeks _ago. AndI had to find out about it from a sodding _newspaper_!" This falls under _his _jurisdiction, damn it, it should be _his_ case. When he finds the arsehole who's kept it this from him, he'll. He'll probably yell a lot and file a formal complaint, but he'll file it as aggressively as he can, just see if he doesn't.

America shrugs, wiping his chin on his sleeve. "Whatever, man. I'm not really worried about it. Don't feel like you have to protect me or anything." He grins. "Protecting people is _my_ job."

"I'll take care of it," England insists.

America shrugs again and stuffs the remainder of his burger into his mouth.

England's grip tightens on his mug. If he had a fraction of America's strength, it would be in shards all over the table by now. "Don't you _care _that you're being investigated for murder?" An echo of the sober, wounded expression he'd seen earlier flashes across America's face, and then the hero quirks an eyebrow and screws his mouth to one side.

"You said you were gonna take care of it," he says.

"I," says England. "Well, yes. I suppose I did, but—"

"Then whaddya want me to be so worried about?"

"I'm not asking you to be worried," snaps England. "I'm asking you to _care._" He's not even angry with America—frustrated, certainly, but not this _furious_—but there's more than enough of the emotion already in him to leak out in his words, to make him want to reach out and shake America as though he could force some sense through that thick skull.

"Dude, you need to chill out."

"You—you're," England sputters, throwing his hands up in surrender. "Fine, if you can't be arsed to care, then I'm not going to do it for you. _Fine._"

"No arguing in my restaurant!" Hungary shoulders open the door to the kitchen, a steaming dish of food in each hand. She slides one in front of England before easing herself into the booth next to him and pushing the second across the table to America, who accepts it wordlessly. It's another three burgers. England's is piled high with proper breakfast food—eggs and bacon and beans and toast—and he hadn't even known he was hungry, but the _smell._ It's almost enough to distract him from his anger. Hungary nudges him gently with her elbow, smiles.

"Dig in," she encourages. England offers her a weak smile and polite thanks and proceeds to stab at his eggs with rather more force than is entirely necessary. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Hungary purse her lips a little, glace off and upwards towards the television as though forcing herself to look at something other than England and America.

"Oh, not this again," she says quietly, darting up from her seat. She's reacting to something on the television, England realizes, and he follows her gaze to find the calm, heavy-lidded eyes of Russia Braginski staring back at him. He's standing behind a bank of microphones, smile small but serene, open, like he's offering a joke and inviting any onlookers to be a part of it. England doesn't ever think he's ever seen Braginski _not _smiling, especially at the speeches or rallies he holds all the time, and it's probably a sound political strategy, but sometimes it comes across as a little eerie (and if it is a strategy, it's certainly not one Braginski can thank his terrifying campaign manager for; she's attends every event he does, near to perched on his shoulder like a hawk, and every inch as fierce and cold and predatory).

England recognizes this as one of Braginski's many campaign adverts; they've been nothing if not impossible to avoid ever since the philanthropist-turned-politician announced his candidacy in the upcoming mayoral election. Onscreen, Braginski opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. A red-lettered MUTE flashes in the corner of the screen, and Hungary clicks her tongue disapprovingly as she sets the remote control on the bar.

"That's quite enough of that," she says.

"Not a fan of Mr. Braginski's, I take it?" asks England.

Hungary doesn't say anything for a moment, inhales slowly, her mouth pressed into a line. The mood passes quickly, though, and she laughs as she tucks herself back into the booth next to England.

"I'm just getting so sick of these political commercials," she says, and England agrees amiably.

America has been uncharacteristically silent during this exchange. England is pretty sure he knows why. He steals a glance at the hero and finds America staring with deliberate resolution at his half-empty plate, expression caught between anger and, despite his adamant protests to the contrary earlier, obvious concern. Asking whether or not he's all right would no doubt be unwise—the feeling, when he realizes that he honestly has no idea how America would react, (other than badly) is something like failure. Subdued, England moves his food around on the plate. He looks up just as a montage of pictures flashes across the television screen, all of the same five figures in triumphant poses and tight costumes, all bright grins and worshipful citizens. The Alliance of Superheroes: Rache, Rapid Fire, El Matador, Echo, and Captain Hero, and England has seen this advert, before, doesn't need the sound to understand the way America's fingernails are digging into his palms. He's well acquainted with Braginski's opinion of Axis City's superhuman quintet.

After all, it's because of him that the Superhero Taskforce exists.

* * *

Damn, Russia, why you gotta be so easy to make into the antagonist? A complex, sympathetic, well-intentioned antagonist though you may be. I mean, depending on your point-of-view, of course. We all know everyone will become one with Mother Russia eventually, anyway.  
Also somehow writing this story has increased my affection for France something fierce. What a cool dude.


End file.
